Lorraine Connection Read online

  DOMINIQUE MANOTTI

  Lorraine Connection

  Translated by Amanda Hopkinson and Ros Schwartz

  Contents

  Title Page

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  Praise

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Warning

  This is a novel. Everything is true and everything is false.

  PART ONE

  A room enclosed by four grey sheet-metal walls, bisected by a conveyor belt carrying two rows of television screens and their cathode ray tubes, under the glare of neon lights from which a stray electric wire dangles. Two rows of four women sit facing each other on either side of the conveyor. Autumn is around the corner and it is very chilly: when they took up their positions this morning it was still dark outside. All the women know each other and feel almost close in this confined space where they work as a team on collective output and bonuses, but no one feels like talking, since the prospect of long nights and short days dampens their spirits.

  The women, also looking grey in their short overalls, lean forward, their eyes constantly moving from the aggressive oblong-shaped bases of the cathode tubes filing past them to the tilting polished-steel mirrors overhead. The same crushing images of the same tubes are reflected from a different angle, as if magnified. Holding tiny soldering irons, they add a few final spots of solder then, on leaving the production line, the finished cathode ray tubes are conveyed to the next workshop on the other side of the sheet-metal wall, where they will be packaged, stored, and ultimately despatched elsewhere, generally to Poland, where they will be given plastic casings and become television sets.

  The girls can hear only muffled sounds from the factory floor, but the noise from the conveyor belt bounces off the sheet-metal walls and dictates the rhythm of their days. Clack, the conveyor starts up, hiss, two seconds, the tubes start moving, clack, stop. Each girl leans forward, the soldering irons sputter, one, two, three, four blobs, and in ten seconds they straighten up. Rolande, at the end of the line, gives the tubes a quick once-over to check the accuracy of the soldering. Clack, sssh, the belt moves forward, minds blank, their hands and eyes work automatically. Clack, one, two, three, four, glance, clack, sssh … Aisha’s face between two tubes, wan, twenty years old, should be in better health. Clack, one, I was in better shape at twenty, two, pregnant, ditched, three, alcoholic mother, violent, four, who was already sponging off me, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha, her eyes vacant, violent father. Clack, one, my son, ruffling his hair, two, caressing his face, affection, three, the factory no way, never, four, study, study, study, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha, work, can’t stand it any more, clack, one, since the accident, two, the accident, the blood, three, blood everywhere, four, throat slit, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha covered in blood. Clack, one, she’s afraid, two, me too, three, all of us, afraid, four, the sheet-metal walls exude fear, clack, sssh. Aisha, her father yelling, clack, one, blinding flash, from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the production line a tube explodes, the briefest scream, earsplitting.

  Émilienne keels over backwards, Rolande’s palm automatically hits the emergency button, the production line comes to a halt, a wire is fizzling all the way up to the neon light, orangey-yellow sparks and a very strong smell of burning rubber or some other substance, sickening. Silence. Rolande clambers on to a chair and picks her way over the conveyor between two cathode tubes. Émilienne is lying on the floor on her back, white, rigid, eyes closed, lips blue. Six months pregnant. Her belly protrudes through her half-unbuttoned overalls. An alarm goes off somewhere on the other side of the partition. In the total silence of the cramped room, Rolande speaks quietly, in a precise monotone: ‘Aisha, run to the offices, grab a phone and call an ambulance, the fire brigade. Go, hurry.’ Aisha rushes off. Rolande kneels down, Émilienne’s hair is spread on the worn-out vinyl tiles. The floor’s filthy, when was it last cleaned? She feels ashamed, removes her overalls and places them under the head of the injured, possibly dead, woman. Émilienne doesn’t appear to be breathing. She leans over her, attempts mouth-to-mouth, senses a breath. She gently unbuttons the neck of Émilienne’s blouse and frees her legs from under the overturned chair. A scorch mark on the seat. The girls are all on their feet, staring expressionlessly, their mouths closed, leaning against the sheet-metal walls, as far away as possible from Émilienne. What was I thinking about earlier? Fear? This is its natural home. Réjane, who sits next to Émilienne on the production line, murmurs in a quavering voice, her hands trembling:

  ‘Maybe we should give her heart massage.’

  ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  One women slaps Émilienne’s face and dabs at it with a wet cloth, the other massages her hands, weeping.

  Antoine Maréchal, bespectacled and in blue overalls, is juggling schedules and attendance sheets in the personnel office. He is the foreman of the assembly-finishing-packaging section, and each day is a monumental challenge to maintain output with absenteeism ranging between ten and twenty per cent. Closer to twenty per cent on this autumn day. What dross, all bloody Arabs or women. They don’t know the meaning of work. The Human Resources Manager in person comes into the office, thirty-something, in a tailored suit, expensive shoes of Italian leather, an incompetent, cocksure young upstart, still wet behind the ears. Maréchal, in his fifties, a lumbering figure in his overalls and safety boots, shudders with repressed hatred.

  ‘Mr Maréchal, how convenient, just the person I wanted to see. The latest figures show an absenteeism rate of thirteen per cent in your section over the last month.’

  ‘I know. I’m dealing with it.’

  ‘It’s the highest rate in the factory. If you don’t do something about it, you’ll be jeopardising the survival of the entire company.’

  Maréchal removes his glasses, snaps down the sides and puts them in his overalls pocket, next to the red ballpoint pen and the blue ballpoint pen, and rests both hands on the desk, which creaks.

  ‘Listen, Mr Human Resources Manager, you’re new here. I’ve been here since the day this factory opened, and not a month has gone by without the management threatening closure. Anyone would think they’d only opened it so they could close it down. So that kind of talk won’t go very far with me. I don’t give a damn if your place closes down. I’ve got my house, it’s not long till I retire, I’ll pocket my bonus and go off gathering mushrooms.’ The pager clipped to Maréchal’s belt starts beeping. ‘Excuse me, I’m wanted on the factory floor.’

  He leaves the Head of HR casting around for a reply and goes next door into the main factory building. The clanging, clattering, scraping and the din of engines. Confused sounds, he thinks. Memories of the powerful, constant roar of the blast furnace, the roar of fire. Nostalgia? Not really. It cost my father his life. He was confused too. The main factory building, divided into numerous enclosed areas which you have to cross or skirt around to reach the long, central corridor, cluttered with a discarded Fenwick engine, empty pallets and dustbins. In front of him, a gaping doorway leading to a narrow room entirely taken up by a machine which, at the time of its installation, was to revolutionise the chemical treatment of microprocessors. A purpose-built room, specially insulated against dust and temperature variations to prevent the machine from overheating and breaking down for lack of ventilation. Idle for a year and a half. Some clever buggers must have dismantled it and nicked some of the parts, can’t blame them. A rush of anger. And it’s my section that’s jeopardising the future of the factory. Wanker.

  Aisha’s running down the main corridor towards him. Trouble of one kind or another.
Without stopping, she yells at him:

  ‘An accident, a short circuit, Émilienne’s dead! I’m going to call an ambulance.’

  Maréchal catches himself thinking if she’s dead, it’s too late, and hastens his step, while Aisha runs on in the direction of the offices. He goes into the finishing workshop and the first person he sees, in the opposite doorway, is Nourredine, the packaging foreman. A good worker, fair enough, but a real troublemaker, always protesting, wanting to put forward his own ideas. What the hell’s he doing here? The place stinks. He immediately spots the scorch marks caused by the short circuit running from floor to ceiling. He looks down and sees Émilienne’s body lying at his feet, and, kneeling beside her, Rolande and Réjane, who is shaking, sobbing and wailing:

  ‘She’s been electrocuted, she’s dead.’

  Émilienne, unconscious, pale, her lips blue, her body racked with spasms accompanied by groans. Right, she’s not dead. Women always exaggerate. I need to take charge of the situation and show that bloody Arab. A quick glance around the room. The girls are all there, pinned against the walls, white as ghosts. Rolande looks less shaken and anyway, she’s the production-line supervisor, a good worker, she’ll lead the others. He leans towards her:

  ‘Everything’s fine, the ambulance is on its way. Move away, you need to give your friend air. Until the ambulance arrives you must all go back to your places. Once the ambulance is here, we’ll see what has to be done.’

  Rolande is still holding Émilienne’s head. Nobody’s paying any attention to the foreman. Rolande’s mesmerised by the puddle of water spreading between Émilienne’s legs.

  Maréchal bends down and takes her arm.

  ‘Her waters have broken.’ Her head is bowed, her voice husky.

  Maréchal doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

  ‘Ms Lepetit, do set an example. Go back to your seat. We must calm everyone down, let the paramedics do their job, and then get back to work. It’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see.’

  Rolande seems to be waking from a nightmare, it’s nothing to worry about, bastard, get back to work, swine, don’t you dare touch me. She suddenly stands up, thrusts his hand from her arm and gives him a resounding clout that sends him sprawling on his back amongst the girls’ legs. Not one of them holds out a hand to help him to his feet. He gets up, crimson with rage. Nourredine has come into the room and he leaps over the conveyor, grabs the foreman’s shoulders and marches him outside.

  ‘Calm down! You’ve no idea what they’ve just been through. The short circuit was so powerful that next door we could see the flash through the partition. And the woman’s scream …’ he has difficulty finding the words ‘… was like something from beyond the grave.’

  The fire brigade arrives at the double, led by Aisha. Nourredine continues to push Maréchal out of the way. Within seconds, Émilienne is hooked up to a drip, placed on a stretcher and carried away.

  Aisha’s lying in the dark, in a cubicle in the medical room. Her production line has been halted, electricians have been called out urgently from Pondange to carry out repairs. The foreman said that everything would be sorted in time for the second shift. Meanwhile, the girls on the opposite line, supervised by Rolande, have gone back to work. To work. Aisha faints.

  Between these sheet-metal walls, white from the flash of electricity, resonating with the scream, Émilienne’s body, a few feet away from Aisha, keeling over backwards, rigid, entangled in her chair. And the other accident, no more than a month ago, right in front of her, the headless body, standing there for ages before collapsing, blood spurting out of the neck, the warmth of the blood on her hands, her face. I am cursed. Forget Forget. Think about something else. I don’t want to go home before clocking-off time. My father at home with all his questions. Why aren’t you at the factory? I shan’t tell him anything. Not a word. Nothing happened. I can’t talk any more.

  Maréchal draws back the curtain around the cubicle and comes in, almost on tiptoe.

  ‘How do you feel, Miss Saidani?’ No reply. ‘I realise what a shock this has been for you. The nurse told me you were feeling a lot better.’

  Clumsy, bumbling Maréchal. Definitely not bright.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘OK. Ms Lepetit has gone upstairs to talk to management and as you’re the only one from the other production line to have stayed, I wondered whether you’d kindly take her place. Just while she’s upstairs. It shouldn’t be for long.’

  Aisha sits bolt upright. To face all that right now – the sheet-metal walls, the production line, the neon lights, the dangling wires, the handle of the soldering iron in the palm of her hand – is to face her own death. But whether she does it today, or tomorrow … the girls will be around me, supportive, their eyes saw what I’ve seen. If I have to choose between the production line and going home to my father, I prefer the production line. Besides, I’m doing it for Rolande.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘The nurse will give you a little pick-me-up.’

  In the admin section, Rolande is trying to walk straight and slowly. They’re probably going to ask me about the accident. That’s going to be difficult. Because right now, what I need more than anything is to forget, completely, for a few days, until I’ve got over my fear. Then talk about it … I must ask for a few days off for the girls. Flashback to the girls’ faces, ashen against the sheet metal. The shock was too brutal. Get them to understand. Find the words … and I’ll find out how Émilienne is. Miscarriage? Dead? Be prepared for the worst, and above all, don’t break down in front of ‘them’.

  She is immediately shown into the office of the Head of HR himself. It’s the first time she’s set eyes on him. A quick glance to size him up. Young, flashy. Not my type.

  ‘Ms Lepetit, I have very little to say to you. After your inexcusable behaviour towards Mr Maréchal, your section foreman, you are being dismissed for serious misconduct, and this decision takes effect as of now. You may not return to your work station. You will be accompanied to the cloakroom to remove your personal belongings, and then to the exit. You will receive your final pay cheque tomorrow.’

  Her insides turn to liquid, her mind goes blank, not a word, not a coherent thought, only images, violent feelings, the flash, the white light, the scream, the smell, the fear. And then my son’s smile, in his boarding school uniform, my mother, drunk, asleep on the kitchen floor, who’s going to pay? Work, pain, broken body, hands numb, hard, yes, but better than no job. Tomorrow, on the streets, homeless?

  Half unconscious, she’s shoved out into the corridor. She leans against the wall, her eyes closed, dizzy, feels like throwing up. When she opens her eyes, Ali Amrouche is standing in front of her. He’s holding her hands, tapping them, a concerned expression on his face. Amrouche, the union rep, always hanging around management, that’s him.

  ‘Rolande, don’t you feel well? Rolande, talk to me.’

  He places a hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s never made, or dared make before. He has nothing but respect for Rolande, but she’s distraught. She feels the warm contact of his hand on her shoulder, it does her good, less alone, and the words return, jumbled at first. She leans against him, lets herself go, then the words come tumbling out and she tells him about the accident, in great detail – her every movement, Émilienne’s body, lifeless, rigid: ‘I touched death, Ali.’ The helplessness, not knowing what to do to save a life, and the violent contractions, the groans as if Émilienne were in immeasurable pain and a hope, the baby that died, almost as if that would bring the mother back to life. With the words come tears, what a relief. ‘And they fired me, Ali, because I knocked Maréchal to the floor.’ A hint of a smile. ‘For that price, I should have killed him, the fat bastard.’

  ‘I’m taking you home, Rolande, and I’ll come back and talk to management, straight away. It isn’t possible, it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. See me to the exit, that’ll help. I’ll go home by myself,
it’s only a couple of minutes away.’

  In the Head of HR’s office, Ali Amrouche tries to explain.

  ‘You can’t fire Ms Lepetit. The whole factory will be up in arms. She’s a courageous woman, everybody looks up to her. We all know that she has to support her son and her penniless mother single-handed. Everyone was shaken up by the accident this morning in her section.’

  ‘She’s not the one who had the accident, it was Émilienne Machaut who, let me take the opportunity to inform you, is safe and sound.’

  ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘Miscarriage. It happens. None of that in any way justifies Ms Lepetit’s behaviour in physically attacking her foreman.’ He straightens his upper body, pushes his shoulders back. I’m here to restore order and discipline in this factory, both of which are sadly lacking. I will not stand for this behaviour.’

  The Head of HR shuffles a file around his desk, taps the telephone, folds his hands. ‘Mr Amrouche, my predecessor told me you were a reasonable man, a man of compromise, able to make allowances. So I am keen for you to be the first to know this: in one week, the works council will meet and the question of the last nine months’ unpaid bonuses will once again be on the agenda. If the company were to pay those bonuses today, plus the arrears, its financial stability would be jeopardised. The financial situation is still precarious, as you well know, and there’s a risk the factory will have to close. So, management is going to suggest – and when I say suggest, you know what I mean – that all bonuses be cancelled for this year and paid from next January.’ He spreads his hands and raises his eyebrows.

  ‘We’ve examined the figures from every angle. There’s no other solution. We are relying on people like you to get everyone to accept it.’

  Amrouche stares at the Head of HR. What does this man know about it? Weariness. How to explain the poverty, suffering, fear, and then the eruption of consuming anger and hatred to this fine gentleman with his smart shoes about to be blown to pieces?